


What Is Dead May Never Die

by mllevangogh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllevangogh/pseuds/mllevangogh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb and Theon, from the 1910s to the 2000s. In which Robb would follow Theon blindly, and Theon doesn't know how to feel about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is Dead May Never Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nataliromanova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nataliromanova/gifts).



> For accuracy, Robb and Theon sometimes regurgitate problematic views of the time. These are obviously not endorsed by me, and are only used to show the complications and contradictions of queer relationships in the time periods described.

**1914**

Theon finds Robb on the deck of the ship, chin jutting out toward the horizon.  The wind is gentle but brisk, and the whole place smells of rotted fish and sea salt and frankly, Theon feels sick again.  But he’s a Greyjoy, and his family at home in the Isles are fishermen and they never felt seasick.  They loved living off salted fish and waking up to the sound of retching. It was a Greyjoy trait. Truthfully, Theon’s sick stomach is more a result of nerves than seasickness, but Greyjoys don’t get nervous, either. 

Theon spits off the side of the deck. Robb takes no notice.

“What will it be like, do you think?” Robb asks, still not looking at Theon.

Theon turns around, leaning nonchalantly on the back of the railing, the breeze licking at his hair.  “Land of rubbish and shit.  Bit like home.”

Robb snorts at this, but his expression does not change.

“Listen, Stark,” says Theon, bumping Robb’s arm, “if you’re going to get all moody on me, I’ll go back below deck.”

“No,” says Robb, “you won’t.  You hate this boat as much as I do.”

“I’m a Greyjoy,” snaps Theon. “We were _made_ for the sea.”

“Which is why I heard you getting sick all last night,” says Robb, and Theon scowls.  Robb sighs. “Sorry.”

“You’re a prick,” says Theon, but it doesn’t have any venom. He turns back round to look at the impending horizon.  The great hulking green statue of Lady Liberty is looming in the fog.

Robb sighs again.  “I just want things to be right here,” he says.  “Right for my mother and for the girls.”  He smiles faintly, punching Theon in the arm. “We men are going to be fine.”

“Right,” snorts Theon.  “We’ll be fantastic day laborers.”

“It’s America,” says Robb, but leaves it at that. He has learned not to believe in the optimistic future of his childhood.  He has known it since he learned his house’s words: _Winter is coming._

“Winter is coming,” says Robb, and Theon nods grimly. “But it’s better than this ship, right?”

Theon says nothing but allows Robb to slip a hand inside his coat pocket, their fingers tangling foolishly.

 

**1920**

“It’s great, isn’t it?” shouts Theon over the noise of the burlesque.  Vita Cologne is the girl of the night, all pale skin and dark lace and eyes like black pearls. And she _sings._

Robb looks distinctly unruffled in this place. He’s seen naked women before – and these women aren’t even _naked –_ he’s _had_ a woman before. But he has never enjoyed the public spectacle of sexuality as it is nowadays – everything is out in the open, and it’s ruining the allure of it all.  Robb glances to his left at Theon, who is watching Vita with the hungry eyes of a wolf.

“It’s okay,” says Robb, and Theon rolls his eys.

“Have some fun!” he says, giving a hoot at Vita.

“I am,” says Robb, but it’s weak, and Theon knows it. Robb hates it here, in the fog of cigar smoke and drenched with the smell of sweat.  But he likes being with Theon and Theon likes being at the burlesque, so here Robb is.

“Ah, here you are!” coos Theon, and Robb turns to see two girls prancing toward them in velvet and cloche hats and pearls. They look like every girl Robb has seen lately, and he supposes they’re beautiful.  The two girls come and perch between Theon and Robb, who awkwardly slides to the right. 

“I invited them,” explains Theon. “They’re girls from the neighborhood. Alice and Enid.”

“Enchante’,” giggles one of them, and Robb smiles politely at her.

Theon puts his arm around one of them – Enid – and gestures that Robb is to _have_ Alice. Great.  Robb puts his arm awkwardly around Alice’s shoulders, feeling foolish.

“I’m afraid I’m not much fun in these settings,” Robb hears himself say, and Alice titters.

“Oh, don’t worry.  I know how to have fun,” she informs him, and then shouts at a waiter. “Drinks, please! Martinis for us all!”

“You can’t have martinis anymore, silly,” Theon tells her, tearing his eyes away from Enid for a moment.  “Remember?”

“Right,” she laughs.  “Oh, well, I guess we’ll have to make our own fun.”

And she’s leaning toward Robb with her lipstick that smells like clay and her pale skin and eyes like orbs and Robb wishes to want to kiss her, but he doesn’t.  Their lips meet clumsily, her gloved hands grasping his shoulders. 

Robb stands suddenly.  Alice reels back from his movement, staring at him.

“I need to go,” he blurts out, and he’s walking and walking out of the club and into the cold February air. 

“Excuse me, ladies, I’m terribly sorry,” Robb hears Theon say but his legs won’t stop until he’s outside breathing deeply. 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” demands Theon angrily, shoving Robb a bit.

“I don’t know,” says Robb.

“I thought you’d _like_ Alice, you prick, I told her how great you were and now she thinks you’re completely _mad—”_

“Theon, you don’t have to tell me—“

“And you’ve really mucked it up, you know—” 

“I _know—”_

“I try to do fun things, Robb, and you’re just not—”

“SHUT UP!” roars Robb, and Theon clenches his jaw shut. Robb rubs his chin. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just—this isn’t fun to me, Theon.” He laughs hollowly. “I don’t _like_ burlesques and loud music and—“

“And girls,” mutters Theon, shoving his hands in his pockets

Robb sighs exasperatedly.  “Maybe,” he says, growing very quiet and walking toward Theon. “Maybe I don’t like girls,” he whispers, and he’s breathing hard in Theon’s face.

Theon meets his gaze.  “Maybe you should change that,” says Theon at last, and he turns to retreat back into the bar.

  

**1936**

The night is cold and dark and empty. It reminds Robb of home a little, of the North.  _Winter is coming._ But this shit Hooverville is no home, no Winterfell.  He’s sitting outside the tent that houses his mother and sisters and Bran and Rickon because he’s the eldest and he’s the one who refuses to sleep in the tent because it won’t fit any more than are already inside and he’s the man of the family, the one who will sacrifice himself for the rest. It’s so cold tonight, though. And Robb’s gloves have long since deteriorated from previous winters.  His family needs feeding and that’s the first priority, not gloves or boots that don’t have holes in their holes or pants without patches.

The thing is, no one will hire a man with patched pants.

Of course, no one’s hiring anyway, so Robb supposes it doesn’t matter.  Robb wonders when he’ll have to turn to the bread lines.  He’s a Stark.  They find food for themselves, even in the Great Winters.  But at this rate, his siblings and mother will starve. 

Robb will not cry.

His tears would freeze on his face.

In the dark, Robb sees Theon trekking home from a day of work, exhausted and bruised.  Robb is jealous of Theon, jealous that his friend gets to feed the Stark family when he cannot.  Theon insists on giving food to the Starks even though it’s _his_ wages paying for it, since the job was just a chance, just a kind old man in a car willing to pay a working Charlie to move coal from one work site to another in massive trucks with massive shovels.  Robb hates him a little for it, because _he_ should have a job, _he_ should be paying for his family’s food.  But as it is, Theon has the job and the money and the food, and charity from Theon is at least not charity from the government. 

Theon sits beside him outside the tent, having taken to sleeping outside.  Robb offered him a small corner of the tent, but Theon of course refused. Robb would have done the same, and now they freeze out in the cold together.  Theon offers Robb a portion of his black bread, already stale. But it’s food and Robb went without dinner because Rickon was especially hungry tonight. 

“How’d you get this?” asks Robb through a mouthful of bread.

“Stole it from a bin,” shrugs Theon. “Some man chucked it out and I managed to get it before it was too disgusting.”

It’s repulsive to think about but the hunger has long quelled the repulsion.

When they finish, there is the stillest silence Robb has ever heard.

“I’m sorry,” says Theon, and Robb turns to look at his profile.

“What for?’”

“For having a job,” says Theon. “It should be you.”

Robb sighs.  “Once I was the King in the North,” he says, recalling his childhood nickname. “And now I’m a poor man trying to feed his family, but so is everyone else here.  I’m no better than anyone.”

“You’re a good man,” says Theon. “And that’s more than a lot can say.”

Robb smiles grimly.

“I mean it,” says Theon.  “I do.”  Robb turns to look at his friend, watching the stars go over his face in the night.

There is a settled silence between them, an agreement. Theon puts a hand on the side of Robb’s face, leaning in and kissing him firmly, lips tasting like oil and coal and dirt. 

When he pulls away, he doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

Robb smiles, his face feeling stretched. “You’re a good man, too.”

  

**1944**

Theon is the first person Robb looks for after the chaos of Normandy because if Theon is dead so is Robb and he knows he’s been taught not to think like this, but he can’t help it.  He has his orders – stay in the encampment a few miles inland, but he can’t without knowing if Theon is alive or dead.

“Leave it,” growls his commander, “leave it be. He’ll find us if he’s alive.”

But Robb can’t leave it, even when he’s ordered. Theon never made much sense to him, but neither does living without him.

So it’s nighttime and Robb is risking his life to find Theon. 

He’s stalking through the woods with his gun at his hip, the adrenaline coursing through his veins when

_“Robb, Christ!”_

It’s Theon, and he’s wounded but he’s walking but there’s blood all over him, spilling out over his clothes.

“You’re alive oh God you’re alive,” pants Robb and he runs toward Theon and kisses him squarely and Theon winces.

“I’m fucking bleeding out my stomach, maybe that can wait,” snaps Theon, but he’s happy to see Robb – more than happy, truly, because Robb is the only one who came looking for him and and the only one he’d _want_ to come looking for him and Theon wasn’t sure how much longer he could survive without the oldest Stark.

“It’s all shit here,” says Theon. “Every bit of it.”

“But you’re alive,” says Robb and that’s truly all that matters.  Robb hoists most of Theon’s weight onto his shoulders and leads him back to camp.

“You thought you’d just wander the woods to find me?” asks Theon sharply, and Robb nods.  Theon sighs.  “That’s daft.”

“Yes, well,” mutters Robb.  “I thought there wasn’t much point in living if you weren’t alive.”

Theon closes his eyes briefly, allowing Robb to drag him along.

“We can’t,” he says, voice hissing into the night. “We can’t do this out here.”

“It’s the only place we can,” says Robb. “Because it’s _here,_ it’s wild.  No one to watch us.”

“ _Everyone_ to watch us,” corrects Theon, but there’s no arguing with Robb or the way his heart is thumping and he’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline or Robb’s arms around his shoulders.  He’s stopped asking questions, asking what is going on between him and Robb because it’s just the way it is.  He’s stopped wondering why he feels this way because the fact of the matter is that he _does_ and if he wants to kiss Robb he’ll kiss Robb and if he wants to fuck girls he’ll fuck girls and if Robb wants to come into his tent in the middle of the night with warm arms and a smoldering look, he’ll let him because a part of him wants that too.

“I don’t understand anything,” says Theon at last, and Robb has the indecency to smile. 

“Nor do I,” he agrees.  “But it’s only you.” He pauses to brush the hair away from Theon’s face.

Theon says nothing.

“Let’s get back to camp,” he says at last, and Robb obliges.

He’d do anything for Theon, even die.

 

**1953**

Robb is sitting in the living room reading when Theon bursts in, horn-rimmed glasses sliding off his face, cardigan rumpled, face sheened with sweat.

“Do you know what they’re saying?” he half-shouts, startling Robb.

“Jesus, Theon, it’s still cold out, why are you sweating—what are you on about?”

Theon runs a hand through his hair, pacing around the room.  “They’re saying you’re a _communist,_ Robb.”

Fear bolts through Robb’s body; he sits up straight on the couch, terror pulsing through him. 

_“What? Who is?”_

“That Jaime Lannister fellow we work with,” spits Theon.  “He’s been telling everyone you’re a goddamned Red and now—“

“I’m going to get arrested, probably,” says Robb in a daze.  “Or questioned, or blacklisted—”

“You need to get out of here,” says Theon quickly. “Grab your mother and your siblings and get out of here.”  He runs a hand through his hair. 

“I _can’t,”_ says Robb, “because then it will look true.  I’m not a Communist – I swear.”

“I know,” says Theon, sidling onto the couch next to him.  “I believe you.”

“Never even been to a meeting, honestly!” says Robb hysterically.  “One labor union meeting when I was young but that’s all, that’s all they can find on me.”

He looks at Theon.  “Is that enough? Can they arrest me on that?”

“I don’t know,” says Theon, looking at his lap. “But Lannister’s got a lot of influence and even more money.  They’ll believe anything he says.”

“I’m going to get run out of here,” says Robb with horror.  “I’m going to get lynched like those colored folk.”  Robb grabs Theon’s arm.  “Promise me, Greyjoy, that if something happens to me, you’ll take care of my mother and sisters and Bran and Rickon.”

“I do so swear,” says Theon seriously. Because this is serious, Communism is, and Theon has pledged fealty to Robb forever, since the beginning and until the end.  He is for Robb, and Robb is for him, and they’re more than brothers.  It’s different than brotherhood, it’s more intimate, more unspoken. Because if anyone ever found out about _that,_ they’d have even more problems than Jaime Lannister saying Robb was a Communist. Communist _and_ homo? He’d be run out on the streets and tarred and feathered and Theon would be right there with him.  If that’s what they are.  Homo, that is.

It’s not quite that but it’s not normal, Theon knows that, can feel it in his bones, inside his brain, that whatever he feels toward Robb isn’t _normal,_ isn’t right. No one else feels that way, because homos are unnatural.  Everyone knows that.

“If anyone asks, you’ll say I’m not, right?” asks Robb, and Theon nods. 

“Of course.  You know that I’m on your side.”

Robb leans back into the sofa, closing his eyes. “How could this happen? How could this happen to me? To _us?”_

Theon notices Robb’s grip on his arm hasn’t relaxed. Inhaling sharply, Theon puts his hand in Robb’s, thumb stroking the side of his hand.

“We are going to be fine,” says Theon. “We’re going to survive this, and then we’re going to castrate Lannister and feed his prick to him." 

Robb laughs, then sighs.  “If I could kiss you right now,” he whispers, “I would.” 

Theon pulls his hand away.  “Not for a long time yet.”

 

**1969**

“They’re going to start drafting soon,” says Theon to Robb.  “I heard it on the news last night.”

“Yes, well, let’s not think about that,” says Robb. They’re at lunch at a café and the news is on and it seems like it’s always on now, always saying something else about Vietnam and about the president and the world.

“Feels like the world is ending, doesn’t it?” asks Robb, and Theon exhales. 

“The world always feels like it’s ending,” says Theon. Robb sighs, taking a bite of his sandwich, eyes still fixed on the television above the bar.

“Well, they’re doing a lottery by birthday and there are 364 other days besides our birthdays so we’ve got good odds,” says Robb, trying to be optimistic.  “As long as it’s not one of our birthdays, we’re sorted.”

Theon stares into his plate, his food getting cold.

“I can’t go to war, Robb,” he says. “I can’t go to war for this.”

“For what?”

“Exactly,” says Theon.  “No one knows what we’re going to war for, and no one cares.”

“You sound like a hippie,” says Robb with a hint of disgust.  “You should be marching with those students at universities and in squares.”

“Shut up,” snaps Theon.  “I’m not a hippie; I’m a _realist._ And realistically, there’s stuff the government isn’t telling us.  Stuff they’re covering up, Robb, and the poor fools who get drafted are the ones who will have to pay for it.”

“Well that’s what we’ll do, then,” says Robb fervently, “because that’s what we do.  We’re American men, and we’ll go to fight for America if they say fight, and we’ll stay here if they tell us to stay here, and we’ll kill every goddamned Viet Cong if they say to do that.  Because _that’s what we do._ We have honor.”

“Damn our honor!” retorts Theon, voice cracking over the ambience of the café.  Robb hisses at him.  “Damn our honor,” he repeats, more softly, and Robb rolls his eyes.  “Our honor is going to get us killed.”

“Then so be it,” says Robb heatedly. “Because that’s the _point._ We have honor. We have decency.  We aren’t the Europeans.  We’re goddamned Americans and if they tell us to fight, we will." 

“Not me,” replies Theon.  “I’m not going into that godforsaken jungle and getting shot or blown up because I’m told to.”

“Well,” says Robb coolly, “you’d better hope they don’t draw September 14th in that lottery of theirs then.” 

They spend a long time staring at each other, the space between them seeming so large. 

“I don’t want to do this,” sighs Robb at last. “If one of us gets drafted, I don’t want things to be like this between us.”

 “You know that I’m loyal to you,” says Theon, “but I don’t have to be loyal to the government.  I don’t trust them like I trust you.”

“Leave it,” says Robb tiredly. “Let’s not talk about this any more.” He looks fixedly at the television on the opposite wall.

“Hey,” says Theon, nudging Robb’s leg with his foot. “It could be fun. Killing things.”

“Yeah,” says Robb doubtfully, “maybe.”

A week later, when the results of the lottery are announced, Robb weeps in front of the radio because the man who announces it is so damned cheerful.

September 14th.

And he never even wanted to go.

 

**1977**

“There’s a rally next Thursday,” says Loras, “if you all want to come.”

They had run into Loras Tyrell on the street coming back from the supermarket twenty minutes ago but he’s still talking to them energetically, even though Theon is making it very clear he’d like to leave.  But then again, Theon _always_ wants to leave. Robb, on the other hand, is more polite and is listening to Loras with his stupid open-minded eyes.

“But—we’re not—“ stammers Robb, and Theon makes a hissing sound.

Loras looks at the way they’re standing together and smiles knowingly but says nothing.  “Well, still,” he says persistently, “it’s not just for queers. There are straight allies involved too. I mean, fuck, man, we just don’t wanna be second-class citizens anymore.”

“Then don’t be gay,” snaps Theon waspishly, and Robb flinches.

“Not that easy, my friend,” says Loras, looking only slightly hurt.  “Wish I knew how.”

Theon lowers his voice to a near-whisper, leaning in close to Loras’s ear.  “It’s very easy. Trust me.”

Loras sighs, shaking his head. “I hope someday you’re as at peace as I am.”

“As a straight man,” retorts Theon, “I suspect I will.” He turns away without a glance back. Robb shoots an apologetic look at Loras but then takes off after Theon, struggling to catch up with him.

Theon is marching heatedly, and it’s only after Robb says his name three times that he even slows down.

“The nerve of him,” fumes Theon, but there’s no end to his thought.

“Is that what you’d call this,” wonders Robb quietly. “We’re straight?”

Theon stops suddenly.   “It doesn’t matter,” he says in a hushed voice, “because unless you want to be a no-good homo pinko freak like Loras Tyrell, I suggest you learn to deal with it." 

“I have,” replies Robb.  “It seems like _you’re_ the one who’s struggling with – us.”

“There _isn’t an us,”_ snaps Theon, and then looks quickly around to see if anyone’s heard him. “Let’s get home.”

“Theon—“

_“Let’s get home.”_

Robb follows Theon obediently, because that’s what he does – he follows him everywhere.  He’d follow him to the ends of the earth.  Robb is the natural leader of the two of them—he’s on the managerial staff at the office, he understands how to deal with people, people look up to _him._ But when it comes to he and Theon, all his confidence fades, he’s so – _in love,_ maybe – that he would jump off the Golden Gate Bridge if that’s what Theon said they were going to do.

Once they’re inside the door of their apartment, Theon slams his lips onto Robb’s, knocking him up against the wall, hands tangled in his hair, breath steaming across Robb’s face, narrow hips pushing up against Robb’s hips.

“My mother—sisters—the boys—” pants Robb, but Theon’s going to work on his belt buckle and it’s hard to find words.

“Out,” breathes Theon and Robb doesn’t bother to question—he hardly ever questions Theon when he’s so confident like this. If Theon says they’re out, they’re out. And that’s all there is to it.

Robb wants to talk about their _relationship_ or whatever—talk about what they’re doing—but then Theon’s hands give a tight clench and he can’t think at all.

  

**1986**

Theon is eating macaroni at the kitchen table when Robb enters, wearing his look of concern.  It’s not uncommon nowadays for Robb to wear it – Robb worries about _everything._ But it’s making Theon nervous for some reason. Robb looks more anxious than usual.

“What?” asks Theon, the immediacy of his question betraying his worry.  “What is it?”

Robb takes the seat opposite Theon, hands in his pockets.

“I was at the doctor’s,” says Robb, voice somber. “And—”

“No,” breathes Theon.  “Is it cancer? Shit, Robb, I swear we’ll be okay, you’ll be okay—“

“It’s not cancer,” interrupts Robb, and Theon immediately feels foolish.

“Oh. Right, yes.”

“It’s not confirmed, or anything,” hedges Robb, head bent.  “Nothing’s for certain.”

“What is it?” snaps Theon impatiently, even though he should be all tender and concerned – and he _is_ concerned.

“AIDS,” says Robb, and his voice cracks. “Dr. Coleridge says I’m at a high risk of getting AIDS.”

“Why would he think that?” Theon demands, and he hates himself a little for how harsh it sounds.

“Because—he asked—he wanted to know if I was—you know, involved in any ‘homosexual behavior.’”

Theon looks at him, dumbfounded. “And you _told him yes?”_ He stares at Robb. _“Jesus,_ Robb, you’re going to put us on some sort of _homo watch list_ or something.”

Robb still will not meet his gaze. “I—I’d never told anyone before,” he says.

“For good reason!” half-shouts Theon, trying to keep his voice down.   “There’s a _reason_ for it!" 

“It—it felt _good,_ Theon,” says Robb.  “To say it. Out loud.”  He laughs nervously.  “I, Robb Stark, have participated in homosexual behavior.” He’s _smiling,_ the prick.  “It—it’s so nice to say it.  Just once.”

“And now your doctor probably thinks you’re a homo freak,” says Theon, and Robb shrugs.

“Probably.”

Theon puts his head in his arms, ignoring his macaroni. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he groans, and it’s true.  Because if Robb’s at risk, he’s at risk, because he—you know.

“Why are you so set against being this?” Robb wants to know.  “We _fuck,_ Theon.  We sleep together.”  Theon won’t look up. “You sucked me off last night, you prick, and you want to pretend I don’t even exist in your life and I don’t know how to handle that,” admits Robb.  “I—I _love_ you, you know. Like a brother, but more than a brother, so much more than that.” 

Theon looks up finally, his face red but no tears in his eyes. “I can’t,” he tells Robb, and it’s wretched the way he says it, his voice cracking.  “I can’t be this way.  I hate it.”

“You hate what people think about you,” says Robb, but Theon shakes his head.

_“I hate it!”_ he shouts at Robb.  “I hate the way you look at me like I’m the second coming or something I’m just me, I’m just Theon I’m just some asshole who you occasionally fuck and that’s _it,_ Robb, I’m not who you want me to be! I’m not a homo and I’m not going to tell my fucking doctor that I am if I’m not.”

“I don’t want you to be the second coming,” whispers Robb.  “I just want you to be Theon.”

“Well if that means being gay, I can’t do that,” says Theon.  “I can’t do that. I can’t go to my doctor and hear I’m at risk for AIDS and be a fucking cover story of LIFE magazine. I can’t do it.”

Robb sighs, closing his eyes. “Do whatever you want, Theon,” he says softly, “because I won’t stop loving you.”

 

**1994**

Robb and Theon are watching TV when the newscaster says that Kurt Cobain killed himself.  It seems wrong for it to be a national event, a whole news story, but that’s the way it is, because Kurt Cobain’s a rock star.  Was a rock star.  Robb and Theon had never been really into Nirvana (Theon liked Pearl Jam better; Robb didn’t have an opinion one way or another) but it was _Kurt Cobain_ and it felt like they _knew_ him practically.  He was – you know – _Kurt Cobain._ Of _Nirvana._ This wasn’t the way things happened. 

“Shit,” breathes Robb in shock. “He was, what—“

“Twenty-seven,” says Theon, reading it off the screen. “Same age as Hendrix. And Joplin.  _Man.”_

“Wow,” says Robb in the same voice.

They sit in silence, watching the breaking news flash across the screen.  Robb thinks it feels false, the way they all want to care about him now that he’s dead, but that’s the way it is when you die, he guesses. 

“It sort of makes you think,” says Theon, “that we could be next.”

“Well,” says Robb, “I mean Cobain _killed_ himself so unless—“

“No,” says Theon quickly.  “No, of course not.”  He blinks.  “But still. He’s _gone._ Dead.  And now he’s just—maybe he’ll be forgotten.”

“No way,” says Robb, but he’s not certain. All sorts of important, influential people had died and faded into oblivion.  Who was to say a rock star who came and went too quickly wouldn’t be one of them? 

Theon can’t shake the feeling that there’s an impending doom waiting for them all, that Death is just around the corner, something tangible, a person, even.  The Grim Reaper. It reminds him of Robb’s family words, the words Robb says all the time.  _Winter is coming._ Maybe this time it’s the eternal winter of death and he’s going to be wiped from the earth soon and he’ll never have been happy, not truly.

“I don’t want to die unhappy,” says Theon without thinking, and Robb looks at him, putting a hand on his arm.

“Are you unhappy now?’ he wants to know, and he’s so _kind_ and concerned.

“I don’t know,” says Theon.  “But I’m always kind of unhappy, aren’t I?”

Robb considers this.  “Technically speaking, yes,” he concedes, “but I just assumed that was, you know, _you.”_

“It is,” sighs Theon.  “Or isn’t. I don’t know.”  He looks at Robb.  “Are _you_ happy?”

Robb smiles softly.  “I’m with you,” he says by way of answering, shrugging.

Theon shakes his head.  “I don’t understand how you can be so happy with me.”

“Because I love you,” says Robb, and Theon exhales. “I—“

But there’s no answer. He doesn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say it,” says Robb. “I understand. You’re not the way I am about it.”

“I want to be,” says Theon tentatively. “I do.  But – I don’t know how to be?”  He swallows.  “Let’s change the subject.”

“I’ll wait for you,” says Robb quietly, leaning in to kiss Theon on the cheek softly.  “I’ll wait for you to be ready until the end of time.”

Theon closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s close enough.

 

**2001**

It’s a bright September morning and Robb is off to the office, leaving Theon at home in their apartment for a mental health day.

“It’s a Tuesday,” moans Theon from the bed as Robb dresses.  “I’m not going to work. I won’t.”

“Fine,” says Robb, “but I’m not explaining to Lannister why you’re out if he asks.”

“Can’t believe that prick is our supervisor,” mutters Theon, but Robb only smiles lightly, kissing Theon on the cheek quickly before he leaves. 

“Oy,” protests Theon.  “No shitty domestic stuff.”

“Sorry,” apologizes Robb, still looking cheerful and not at all like he means it.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 “I’m not your fucking boyfriend,” grumbles Theon from the bed, and Robb smirks a little.

“Okay,” he says maddeningly, and then he’s off into the crisp New York morning.

At 9:00, the phone on their bedside table rings. Theon ignores it. It’s so _early_ still.

At 9:05, it hasn’t stopped ringing.

At 9:06, Theon waspishly snatches it up and snaps, _“What?”_ by way of greeting.

His face turns white and he is not aware of choking out sobs, hand clapped over his mouth as the voice on the other side of the phone explains what’s happening.

Theon sits on their bed weeping loudly into his hands, hiccoughing through his tears.  Has Cat heard about this? Cat should hear about this.

Theon calls but the line is busy and he supposes she’s already heard from someone else, is probably sobbing into her pillow.

People were making it out alive. They were.  Robb could be one of them.  It wasn’t that absurd to think.

_He can’t be dead,_ thinks Theon.  _Not after all we’ve been through.  Not after all this._

Theon lies facedown on the bed, not moving, tears leaking down his face.  How can he be feeling all this at once? How can he be feeling all this about Robb? Because he’s Robb, of course, that’s the answer, because he’s _Robb._

The phone rings again about twenty minutes later, and Theon’s hand snatches it up quickly, mouth speaking before the receiver is even to his lips.

“Hello?”

“Theon! Theon thank God you’re there – ”

“Robb oh, God, it’s you – you’re here, you’re alive – ”

“Theon, Theon, listen, listen to me, listen, okay? I need you to – I need you to listen.”

 Theon is wiping the tears stinging from his eyes. “Yes, yes, okay, I’m here.”

“I love you, Theon. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I love you more than anyone in the world.   And I need you to say it, say it out loud to me, because— "

“Jesus Christ, Robb, I love you,” says Theon instinctively, and he’s coughing out the word, hacking it out through hiccoughs. “I love you I love you I love you. I’m sorry – I’m sorry for all the times I never said it before, I’m sorry, I wish I could erase everything I ever did – ”

“- No, don’t say that.  It’s – it’s always been you and it will always be you, you know? Okay?  Remember me, Theon, promise me you’ll remember me –”

_“Don’t you dare, Robb. Don’t you dare!”_ Theon is shouting, hoarse already. “You aren’t going to die, I won’t let you – “

“Theon it’s so hard to breathe in here, it’s all burning, you know, it’s getting dark with smoke –“

“No, no no no no,” sobs Theon, “you can’t leave me, you _won’t_ stay with me, please, please stay with me, Robb, I love you I love you, I love you, _stay –“_

“Just – remember me, okay?” pleads Robb. “Theon – Theon I think we’re I think we’re –“

And then the phone is consumed with static and Theon is consumed with the kind of tears that tear out his insides and fling them into the air.  He sounds like a wolf, a wolf howling for his lost wolf, and he’s gone – and the television is showing it all collapse, the whole thing, and Robb never deserved to die, never deserved _any_ of this, this should have been Theon there with him, going down in the flames together. They were meant to be _together,_ to be a pair, and Theon wants to be rid of his own skin.  

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpers to his pillow, and rolls onto Robb’s side of the bed, touching the fabric, the soft pillowcase touching his cheek.  It smells like Robb, like his shampoo and aftershave and sleep, and everything is Robb. And now the whole of New York City will be Robb, Robb’s cells floating over everything, being breathed in by millions of people and that makes Theon _angry,_ because Robb is his, all his, and he deserves all his cells for himself, which makes no sense but _Robb._

He lies on his back, watching the ceiling, hearing the wailing of the nation and the sirens and the screaming and knowing that they are dying, all of them, dying for the dead.  He laughs with the absurdity.

_What is dead may never die,_ he reminds himself, _but rises again, harder and stronger._

But the words seem futile without Robb in the world. 

_What is dead may never die._

_What is dead may never die._

 

 


End file.
